


all is calm, all is bright (Tolkien Secret Santa Advent Calendar, day #21: SFW list, 'waiting out the darkness')

by RaisingCaiin



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Late Night Conversations, Multi, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:13:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28209615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisingCaiin/pseuds/RaisingCaiin
Summary: Idril notices that Voronwe is growing restless during a nighttime storm, and attempts to help him feel safe where he is so that he will not need to leave their warm bed and snoring lover.(prompt fill for Tolkien Secret Santa Advent Calendar! Day #21, "Waiting Out the Darkness," SFW list)
Relationships: Idril Celebrindal/Tuor/Voronwë
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	all is calm, all is bright (Tolkien Secret Santa Advent Calendar, day #21: SFW list, 'waiting out the darkness')

When a particularly violent gust of wind shrieks around the sides and against the stones of the Tower of the King, Itarillë can feel Voronwë flinch beside her.

It is not a particularly large movement, and Itarillë cannot tell whether her second lover even knows that he has shied away from the sound. But she does know that the storms they receive, even so far inland as Gondolin, still trouble the mariner, even if he has difficulty with admitting it. And tonight's snowstorm, it seems, will be no different. 

On Itarillë’s other side, Tuor stirs. “What is it?” the Man whispers, his voice hoarse with sleep.

“It is nothing,” Voronwë returns, just as soft. “Go back to sleep, lest you wake your wife.” 

Tuor makes some inquiring noise at this, but when Voronwë does not speak again, their Mannish lover is asleep once more, and snoring softly to boot, within a heartbeat.

In the darkness, Itarillë can just make out Voronwë’s smile, strained but soft and fond as he listens to the whistle of the Man’s breathing. But then it is the wind that comes whistling past again, rattling their windowpanes with its impotent fury, and from the stiffness of his body beside hers, Itarillë can tell that Voronwë is fully awake to hear it now.

If she does nothing, she knows, then the next gust will drive him from their bed, to pace about the Tower like a haunted creature, seeking some stone-solid corner where he can crouch into himself so that he will not hear the storm.

If he must go, then Itarillë will not stop him. But she does not wish for him to be alone, if there is any chance he need not be.

So she gives up the pretense of sleep, turning to face her second lover with as much grace as her swollen belly will allow her to move. “Voronwë,” she whispers.

The child within her knows who their first-father is too, she thinks ruefully, as the babe kicks happily at her guts with the movement. Even if the man in question is scared for what it might mean that he is.

“Lady?” Voronwë whispers, blinking up at her as Itarillë leverages herself to lean over him. “Apologies, I- I did not mean to wake y-“

But Itarillë lays first a finger, then her own lips, against his. “Hush, now,” she whispers, already weighing how she might phrase the next question and mentally discarding one option after another: _can you not sleep?_ and _is it the wind again?_ and _you know that I would fight Ossë himself for what was done to you, my love, do you not?_

“I was already awake,” she finally settles on saying, and it is not even a lie. “Your babe is as much of a wild one as you are, Mariner.”

He flinches again, and Itarillë imagines that she can see the ghost of another apology already forming on his tongue.

“Which is not your doing, beyond that first night,” she tells him archly, letting herself back into her original place with a stifled sigh. “But still. Come speak with him, and tell him that his first-father wishes he would sleep.”

And this time, when Itarillë reaches for Voronwë, he comes. At her direction, he lifts the hem of her nightdress with all the chaste and gentle courtesy care that she could ask, and he presses a soft kiss to the rounded swell of her belly. Then whispers to the child whom he helped her place there: “Little one, you need to let your mother rest, now.”

The babe kicks again, a little more vigorously this time in fact, and Itarillë sighs, cupping the back of Voronwë’s head and smoothing her thumb through his fine dark hair. “I fear he may be as stubborn as his sire,” she tells him, half-laughing as quietly as she can. “So this may take some time.”

Voronwë smiles up at her, tentative and torn, from the soft warm cavern they have made above his head of her nightclothes and their shared blankets. “As it will be, lady.”

Itarillë lets him see her roll her eyes at his continued use of her titles, and she continues petting through his hair as he whispers soft phrases to the babe. Between the motion of her hands, and the thickness of the blankets, and Voronwë’s own ever-present need to give of himself to others –

Itarillë is more hopeful, now, that he will be able to wait out the darkness and the storm, here in the safety of the bed they have made with Tuor, still snoring in soft contentment beside them.

**Author's Note:**

> ...yes, I do indeed have a whole set of headcanons about who this OT3's first kid, and Earendil's older brother, is, and he *has* featured very tangentially in a few other Silm fics I've written. but it's been a while, and i've made a few changes since then, so just in case I'll give you a hint: the grown-up version of him features in my NSFW Advent Calendar prompt from a few days ago, ["jingle all the way"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28133445) XD


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